


Afternoon Tea

by redscout



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Quest, though it hints otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 01:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscout/pseuds/redscout
Summary: “As I said, think nothing of it, if you must.” Frodo pauses, gaze thoughtful. Sam is very uninterested in tea. “It was a stray thought.”Frodo and Sam enjoy a quiet afternoon in the garden together, tea in hand.





	Afternoon Tea

**Author's Note:**

> these are getting weirder and weirder and i’m sorry. there’s nothing else to say other than that it’s 4 am. enjoy

Sam had grown quite used to spending afternoon tea with his master. Frodo was a generous gentlehobbit and a lover of conversation, and the occasion had obviously grown as habit to the both of them in the past couple of months. It served as a convenient bridge between wind-down time, and a break from his duties in the garden, and, though he loved to work, Sam found himself unable to complain about the opportunity to just sit and think for a while.

“Sam,” Frodo says, in the midst of one such occasion, and Sam looks at him as he’s used to doing when addressed by his master. “I’ve come to a sort of revelation I’d like to share with you, completely honestly.”

Sam is almost struck by these words, an unusual topic of conversation for their typical afternoon tea meeting, but instead of asking for clarification, the words “Alright, shoot, then,” tumble out of his mouth like he’s simple, and he curses himself silently. 

“Sure,” Frodo returns, as if it weren’t his idea in the first place. Seriously, he places down his cup and saucer next to him on the bench, and then crosses his legs and folds his hands about his lap. “I think I very much like you.” 

Sam stares for a very long moment. He knew the Bagginses to be an odd sort of fond, but this went beyond anything he’d grown accustomed to. Both the masters of Bag End were honest in their feelings, he supposed, and that probably contributed to this. But calling it a _revelation_ and saying it in such a resigned, matter-of-fact way made it all the more odd. Sam swallows.

“Yes?” he says, puzzled, and Frodo nods.

“Yes. In fact—“ he pauses here, to draw his drink back up into his hands, Sam supposes, to have something to do, “—I may fancy you, and may very much love you. I think I love you.” And then he sips at his tea, expression placid and innocent. Sam feels, honestly, that he’s never been more confused in his life.

“That’s nice of you to say, Mr. Frodo,” Sam stammers at length, “but I don’t really—“

“Think nothing of it, if you will,” Frodo says, and shrugs, his expression unchanged. “I just felt the need to let you know. Seeing as we are having tea.”

“Is that what this is about?” Sam blurts out before he can stop himself. “Why we’ve been havin’ tea together all the time?”

“In a way,” Frodo answers. Sam hates how cryptic he can be.

“What do you mean, _in a way?_ ”

“I invited you to tea at first to be polite, if you must know,” Frodo says, shortly. “I still invite you to tea to be polite, and also now because I’ve grown fond of you. But fancying you is something else entirely.”

“I... don’t quite understand, sir.”

“I probably wouldn’t invite you to tea if I just fancied you,” Frodo states, like it’s obvious. “But that isn’t the case. With how frequently we correspond, I’d say we’ve earned the title of _friends_ by now, have we not?”

“Well—“ Sam blanks, drawing his tongue in before he can reveal more than he’s ready to. He can’t go and tell his master he’d considered them _friends_ for months now while he’s staring at him so emphatically. “I’d— I’d hope... I’d suppose so, yes.”

“Then the two occurrences are unrelated.” Frodo sits back again. Throughout the whole of this exchange he’s remained entirely calm, and Sam is positive, were it him sharing deeply personal information like it was smalltalk, he’d be six feet under already. “I can invite you to tea as a fond friend and fancy you all the same and—“

“Please stop sayin’ that,” Sam begs, so weakly he’s not sure he’s even speaking.

“— _and_ neither of those two things has anything to do with the other,” he concludes, pointedly. “You just truly ought to know, and there’s no better time to tell it than during tea. I hope you’ll forgive me for disturbing the occasion.”

“I think I need to go, sir,” Sam sputters. Frodo looks unmoved, sipping at his tea.

“That’s fine. I understand.” Frodo’s eyes close briefly and reopen very slowly, lids hooded, and Sam’s mouth goes dry. “Big thing, to be told you’re loved on an otherwise ordinary day.”

“No, that’s not, it’s, that’s not it at all, sir, beg your pardon, I just—“

“Do you have to leave or don’t you, Sam?” Frodo asks, seriously. “The least you could do is finish your tea, instead of babbling out excuses like a stuck chicken.”

“Sir—“ Sam pleads.

“I dug the nice china out for you, go on,” Frodo insists. Sam stills. “Not another word.” Sam almost gets up and leaves, as he says he would, but he doesn’t move at all. He doesn’t even think to chug the beverage in his hands, the porcelain in hand probably soiled by hours and years of toil in the dirt. Instead, he sits back, with cup and saucer, and enjoys the nice day next to his master.

Frodo is looking thoughtfully at the sky and the trees beyond the Hill, the fields painting the horizon green and gold. Sam loves the Shire in much the same way, and especially for its foliage. For a moment he feels tranquil, and then the present issue slips back to his attention, and he feels very not normal for the calm silence surrounding them.

“Mr. Frodo...” he starts, not at all sure where to take the sentence once he’s begun speaking. Frodo looks at him. “Could we... Could we backtrack?”

“Hmm?” Frodo hums.

“Retrace... your words.” Sam swallows. He’s not really sure why he’s gone and put himself on the spot like this. “I want to understand something.”

“Sure.” The answer is unperturbed. Sam stares at the grass beneath their feet.

“Why... did you say you love me?”

“ _Think,_ ” Frodo corrects, “think I love you.”

“Fine, then,” Sam says through grit teeth, “why did you say you _think_ you love me?”

“Because I think I might,” is all Frodo says, and takes another thoughtful sip of his tea. Sam blanches.

“And why, pray, do you think that?” Sam asks, and Frodo looks back at him now, his expression gravely serious in a way Sam has not seen in quite a while.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Well...” To be honest, Sam is fully struck by this question. He’d never asked himself whether or not he was _lovable_ , per say, and having to confront those kind of thoughts was making him blush. “I guess I never... No?” Frodo shakes his head now, setting his cup and saucer down again.

“Humble, and all, but that’s stupid of you.”

“Mr. Frodo, you’re making a deal of this, but I don’t—“

“Surely you see it, don’t you?” Frodo interrupts, his voice softer now. “I mean, Merry knows, too.”

“Knows _what?_ ” He prays for clarification, more confused than he’s ever been during a conversation with a Baggins.

“How objectively sweet and genteel you are.” Sam sputters on his own tea, his eyes fixated on Frodo now. “It’s plain as day. Soft, too, and sensitive. It’s all too ideal. You don’t see it?”

“I— Well, I...”

“You take good care of this garden, and good care of me, and especially of my uncle. And you’re all too humble about it!” he says, suddenly. “Seriously. And you act as if it’s _puzzling_ that I fancy you.”

“Mr. Frodo...”

“As I said, think nothing of it, if you must.” Frodo pauses, gaze thoughtful. Sam is very uninterested in tea. “It was a stray thought.”

“But you can’t possibly mean all that,” Sam reasons, his cheeks pink.

“I do.”

“I’m serious, Mr. Frodo, that ain’t no joke to be—“

“It isn’t a joke, Sam,” Frodo concedes, honestly. Sam is quiet for a long minute. The Shire below them remains in motion, and the birds tweet in the trees like any other day.

“Then that’s awful nice of you to say,” he says eventually, and Frodo shrugs.

“Naught but the truth.”

“And you fancy me?”

“I do.” He pauses, and shrugs again. “And I may love you.”

“Huh,” Sam says, unable to spit out the words that come to mind next, so instead he says, “May.”

“Yes, may,” Frodo hums again, soft but cheerful. Sam hums too, thoughtfully. To think you _may_ love somebody. “Is that alright?” he adds, quietly. Sam thinks for a short minute, before nodding.

“Yes,” he says. “I think it’s quite fine.” He sets his teacup and saucer next to Frodo’s tentatively, and meets eyes with him. And then Frodo looks away, and he follows his gaze back towards the cloudless, sunny sky in front of them. He thinks for a moment that the Bagginses certainly are an odd couple of gentlehobbits, but also thinks that he very much enjoys afternoon tea. There’s no place else he’d rather be.


End file.
